A Sad Child
by taco's bell
Summary: -You craft weaknesses to make up for the strength.- Time-travel is such a noble concept except when it's not, or where Riddle meets his shrink for the first time.


-You craft weaknesses to make up for the strength.- Time-travel is such a noble concept except when it's not, or where Riddle meets his shrink for the first time.

* * *

**i. go see a shrink or take a pill.**

The children shy away from him, as if he could extinguish them as easily as blowing out their ugly dirty birthday cake. (_They think they're special-but they're not, they don't realize they are spilling poison into their lips, the disgusting cafeteria food __is a killer__._) He supposes it's not entirely false (he's done it before), but he finds the cowardice amusing all the same.

He sits down slowly, eyes half-hooded to watch the dreary festivity. It was one of the other boy's -Billy Stubbs sounds awfully boring- birthday. The orphanage had enough money to afford a birthday cake, it seemed. Probably a generous sponsor who couldn't afford to be present, himself. Tom closes his eyes, in an almost lazy manner, listens to the chant of birthdays swing in and out of his ear. It dulls eventually, and Tom opens his eyes to see one of care-takers cutting the cake into thin slices -_very very thin slices, let them have a taste of sugar and take it away forever_. The woman eyes him hesitantly, before gesticulating for him to come forward. Tom entertains the thought of making the cake explode in her ugly ugly face. Cover up the wrinkles and the hard smiles that are never directed at him. But, he's hungry, so he ambles over.

She offers him the paper plate with a frown in her brows, and he accepts it. The woman seems to shiver at the touch of his fingers.

He smiles.

"Hey," comes a petulant voice, hesitant but strong, "why does _he_ get a slice?" Tom is just a little irritated. Slowly, he turns around, and spies the boy of the hour scowling at him. He falters when he meets Tom's stare, but recovers himself.

"Billy," the woman admonishes, "the cake is for sharing."

"But it's _my_ birthday," Billy insists, glaring at Tom, "and I don't think he deserves one."

"Billy," the woman repeats, exasperated, "it wasn't just for you. Tell you what. How about we let you keep that bunny of yours."

Billy starts, flustered. "Rabbit? What rabbit?"

"Don't think we don't know you sneak food to it in the garden," the woman says fondly, -and Tom finds it _so_ idiotic, why feed something else when you were starving yourself?

"I can keep it?"

"If you share and don't complain." Billy nods, as if convincing himself it was worth the price, before throwing one last glare at Tom. Then, he runs over to his petty friends, throwing his arm around their shoulders, shouting about bunnies and rabbits, and _I can keep him!_

The woman puts a reassuring hand on his shoulders and the warmth burns through his flimsy shirt.

"They just don't understand, Thomas," she says, and Tom finds he hates the name, "give them some time, alright?"

He doesn't answer and the woman removes her hand with a sigh.

Billy finds Tom several hours later, holding his new pet in a triumphant manner. Tom is languishing in the shade of the tree, hands tucked behind his back. He does not glance up when the boy stomps up to him.

"Enjoyed the cake, did you?" Billy says, and Tom's eyes flicker to him. Again, Billy falters and Tom smirks -_run away boy, run before I tie you up and leave you to the snakes._ But, Billy does not run, and the curling around Tom's arm hisses. Billy doesn't notice.

"You didn't even sing happy birthday," Billy says, as if it's a crime.

"Did you want me to?" Tom smiles, and it does not look pretty. Billy shakes his head quickly.

"Still, you should be grateful," Billy continues, glancing away from Tom's sharp eyes, hugging his rabbit to himself. It is silent because Billy is scared and Tom is bored.

"His name is Fluffy," Billy says, and Tom thinks it's so original. He tells Billy so.

Billy blushes, "I'd like you to think of something better, circus-freak!" Tom blinks, and Billy steps back.

"It's true," Billy mutters, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, as Tom appraises him. "I heard the workers talking about your mum. She works for a circus!"

Tom stands up. "My _mother_," his tongue sneers around the word, "is dead."

"Well, if I gave birth to you I'd die too!"

Tom's eyes flash, white teeth snapping. "Oh, but your mother isn't dead, is she Stubbs? She _left you here." _

They are still young, the children, but Billy knows the basics of a punch, and Tom can hiss. In the end, they both bleed. Tom watches the rabbit bounce away to the safety of the other children, and smiles.

* * *

Later, there is a rabbit hanging in the rafters.

* * *

They can't prove anything, he knows this. Yet the children flinch when he's near, and Billy curses him. Tom doesn't mind, in fact, he approves of their behavior. But in their actions, rises certain complications. The workers are more reserved, cautious, around him, and although they cannot outright ostracize him, their expressions tell him what he needs to know.

_Circus-freak._

His fingers curl around his spoon, and a small frown brushes his lips, turns it pale.

That day, Riddle meets his shrink for the first time.

Tom tips his ear near his door, hones in on the footsteps dawning. When they draw nearer, he goes back to his bed, and focuses on the voices.

"Oh, I'm so glad you came. You said something about curing mental illnesses, right?" He can hear Ms. Cole murmuring. A man answers.

"We try to prevent them from becoming fatal, both to the patient and other residents. But yes, something of the sort. I'm a shrink, if you will."

The footsteps quiet at his door.

"Good, good," Ms. Cole whispers, "I'm just worried about his reaction."

"Does he get upset easily?" There is a rustle, a brush of clothing, papers.

"Frightfully so. The children don't like him very much."

"Interesting," the man notes, and Tom bristles. He shouldn't care, it shouldn't matter, but suddenly, the condescending tone the man talks with leaves Tom bothered.

"Who are you again?"

"Harry Parks. I'm a clinical social worker."

"So, this social work, it's free?"

"Of course, Ms. Cole." There is a sigh, before a noise of resignation. She knocks on his door, and Tom freezes. More taps as Tom straightens.

"Tom?" comes Ms. Cole's voice, softly, "I have someone here who wants to see you."

"Come in," he announces sullenly, eyes intent on his door. Weathered hands turn the knob, push open the door. The green eyes are the first thing that catches Tom's attention, the hair, second. Not something he expects.

Tousled hair, muddied green eyes behind spectacles, stare at him, and Tom scowls slightly.

"Tom," Ms. Cole starts, "this is Mr. Parks. He's here to talk to you, is that alright?" She speaks with a condescending tone, as if he were some ignorant child, and Tom smiles sweetly.

"Of course, Ms. Cole," he says, and she looks uneasy. "You're here to talk about my _issues_, aren't you? You think I'm mad?" His voice is hot, angry, and low, and he stands from his dingy mattress.

"No, no," Ms. Cole hastens to appease, "He just wants to help."

"Quite," the man drawls, green eyes twinkling. They dull a moment later. Harry shakes his head, looks away.

"Nice room," he notes, eyes catching on the cabinet, before scuttling away. Tom narrows his eyes, suspicious.

"It's a standard one," Tom answers carefully, "there's nothing here."

Harry smiles. "There is something pleasant about nothing, isn't there?" Ms. Cole throws him a withering look, but Harry only smiles wider.

"Ms. Cole, if you don't mind?" He gesticulates to Tom and himself mildly, and Ms. Cole purses her lips.

"Very well," she says finally, "I'll be back later." Lifts her skirts and leaves.

Tom listens to the stomps cease, before crossing his arms. "I know what you're up to."

Harry looks amused, and partially disturbed. Tom likes the latter on his face more. "Oh?"

"I'm not crazy," Tom snaps, "I'm _special._"

"Sometimes, they mean the same thing," Harry says lightly, leans on his mattress. Tom scowls.

Harry regards him with something akin to disdain, before fishing in his bag. He retrieves a sleek black journal, and offers it to Tom.

"You'll need it. For our sessions," Harry says when Tom makes no move to take it, and shoves it into Tom's hands.

"Sessions?" Tom asks. Plural.

"To understand the mind," Harry dismisses, "or something of the sort. It'll certainly help you in the future."

Tom doesn't look convinced, but cradles the books in his hands anyways.

"Why?"

Harry looks away. "It's my job."

And if Tom notices the guilt, he doesn't mention it.

* * *

**A/N: **yeah, my writing is a little lacking at the end, but oh well. thanks for reading! reviews would be adored. :)

**2/16/13: **If anyone's actually reading this: this is **DISCONTINUED.** i should delete it since it doesn't have much of a following but i'm going to keep it up just in case I ever decide to come back (never).

**4/6/13:** Okay, now I feel bad. I'm just lazy, I don't think I've ever actually lost where the story was going. I'll try to update soon, :).


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